


One Thursday Night

by SunsetSwish



Series: Package Deal [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:58:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6717133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunsetSwish/pseuds/SunsetSwish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q has always taken full responsibility for his actions, whether he was acting for his agents or for himself. This time... well, this time he thinks will be last time he'll have to accept the consequences.</p>
<p>Prompt: Deal with the Devil for 2016 Trope Bingo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Thursday Night

It's quiet down below the new HQ. On nights free from crisis, rare as they are, there's only the absolute minimum of staff present in the Branch to keep things running. There's no need for Q himself to be here tonight, though it surprises exactly no one that he stays working.  
Neither his staff nor superiors need to know that Q himself has made sure in advance that on this Thursday night there would be no checks of anything, no catching up and no planning ahead. In theory it's a pleasant night at home for everyone.  
Q's partner is at home too, likely sleeping off the weariness of a long trip and a week's worth of hard work. He believes Q will be occupied well into the night, because that's what Q had told him.

The computer lab is empty of other people. Like this, it becomes the true nest of electronics earned by Q and transformed, piece by loving piece, into his home. Its chrome and glass have served him and protected him for years, but.  
Tonight, each time any sort of noise rings and echoes through the space, Q looks up and stays frozen in spot until he figures out the source. He won't be protected anymore.  
He'd thought it would be better – more dignified, if you will – to remain on post in his little kingdom, to let It come for him and let It see he would do his job for as long as he was able. However, as minutes pass he cannot stay focused, glancing away from the desk time and time again, his tired eyes scanning the length of the room before him.

There are plenty of sources of noises down here, even if one counted out the so familiar hum of the computer fans. Sections of the equipment are meant to stay on 24/7, always taking power and refreshing, running automatic maintenance and the like. Air conditioning adjusts every so often and the very bones of the tunnels react to temperature changes happening above ground.  
An occasional muted ping comes from the processes running in the background on the three active workstations Q set to work hours ago and hasn't really been monitoring them as he should.  
He looks back down at the item between his hands. It's nothing vital to Six's missions and if he had to leave it as is nothing would fail because of it. Someone, R or anyone else, could finish it for him. Then again, who knows if they would touch it at all after what is going to happen here, soon.

It's 23:24. There is a timer set to take up one corner of the tablet lying at Q's left elbow. It counts 00:35:45.  
...44,  
...43,  
...42.

Q looks away to rub at his eyes. They are dry and irritated and the long day he's had is only some of the reason for it. In fact, by now they feel hot and might look puffy, though he hasn't been crying.

He wanted to have a little bit more time. It's only life's irony that Q's found himself in a relationship barely a year before his time was up. When he'd made the deal, possible relationships were far, far down the list of his expectations in life. They weren't even high on his list of hopes. Getting out of his town and away from the ruins of his family had seemed like an undertaking for years and anyway, a skinny gay boy who jumps at any and every shadow in the streets wasn't going to be anyone's catch. Hell, at fifteen thirty seemed a pensioner's age. He hadn't cared about anything that came after twenty five.

But then, everything has changed. And thirty was now.

Q sits like this through the next half an hour, cocooned at his desk by the warm light from his lamp. Losing focus more and more often, he glances at the timer every twenty seconds. He isn't at all surprised that his mind is full of half-remembered things to do, things he _could_  do, or should have done. Still, he isn't thinking about leaving anything for his partner. He had tried it, weeks ago. He had started writing a letter, worded as though he were already gone – and he couldn't do it. Frankly, it made him sick. Instead, he'd focused on getting his will in order and made sure everything was going to go to the right person. Technical, practical things.  
He did write a letter for R. That one was easy – just encouragement and some constructive comments for the future. He also considered writing a simple apology to M before deciding he'd done what he could by training his staff to keep the ship afloat without him for a while. That's what M was going to need rather than words.

It's a movie cliché, the kind of regret one feels at not having said things when there still had been time for it. Q had the time and had the knowledge most people never could have before they die in car crashes or from heart attacks. Even so, with all the forewarning Q had, saying the important things is the opposite of easy.  
Oh, Q wasn't pathetic enough to fail to say out loud the most important one. He's done it the previous night and this morning (it feels like years have passed since this morning) he left a post-it note with the words written down on the kitchen counter.

It's twenty minutes past midnight. Twenty one, actually. Q is still alone. Hills and McIntyre are still lazing about three floors up with the staff on duty there. No one has come to or for Q. But then, twenty minutes are nothing against a span of fifteen years, Q thinks. He knows better than cling to schedules or stick to the rules.

It's twenty minutes past one am. Q is tired. He's so tired the room goes out of focus and his head drops slowly until he startles himself awake and sits up straight. Then he leans forward again, feeling all but boneless as he nods off, his cheek pillowed on his arm.

The front glass doors slide open, startling him awake once more. It might have been a minute or it might have been fifteen since he closed his eyes.  
It's Hills, strolling back into Q-Branch with a paper cup in his hand. The techie takes in the lab and Q in it, and would have to be blind not to notice the state of Q. Hills stops by his own station to put the cup away and then comes over to Q's, while Q takes the time to look at his tablet. It'll be two am in twenty five minutes.

"Boss," Hills starts, hesitates, buys time by finding a comfortable way to lean his hip against the far edge of Q's desk and then decides to go through with the question. "Is there a reason why you won't go home? If you had any problems, you know you can trust us, yes?"

Q stares. It's touching, certainly, about as touching as it is embarrassing. And baffling. Actually, he feels a little insulted on James' behalf, that someone would assume Q would be afraid to head home, but. He's not in the right emotional state to give Hills an in-depth commentary on why he's completely off the mark.

What Q is able to process, however, is the truth of his situation. It's the middle of the night and he's alone in the Q-Branch – well, _was_  alone – and he has his staff member worried for him to the point of voicing it and trying to have a serious conversation with him... so Q decides to just go home.

He sits up straighter and puts both hands on the surface of the desk in an attempt to regain some of the professional air.

"I appreciate your support, even if the assumption is entirely wrong. People I invite into my house won't ever be the ones to keep me away from my it, I assure you."

Hills gives a little embarrassed shrug, at the same time looking not entirely convinced. "Sure, I'm sorry. All the same, should it ever be something else, the offer stands."

"Yes, thank you." Q says shortly and gives Hills a long look, meant to convey the suggestion to please leave and go mind his business.

Left alone at his desk, Q puts his face in his hands and sighs.

  
He should be using the car service or at least a regular taxi, only he can't bear being around any person who might be feeling too friendly or obligated to talk to him. In the Tube he doesn't have to worry about appearing rude or not all there in the head when he chooses to ignore his surroundings.  
When Q steps in, the carriage is empty except for three people, all of them several seats away from each other. He's always found the mutual empathy and consideration among night time refugees rather touching.

Q sits sideways on the seat, presses his cheek against the cool glass and lets his eyes rest and the world lose focus. It's nice, this night chill and a break from human presence with the rhythm of machine noises in the background.  
Without his conscious input, Q's vision wetly blurs at the edges. Crying never came easy to him and he rarely had cause for it in these past years but once it started to happen, his eyes would bear the proof for at least an hour afterwards. It's just one of those _things_  which have made his life more difficult than it had to be in the past. Rubbing the wetness away with a stubborn movement, Q doesn't care that he's only going to make it worse.

The closer to home he is, the tighter Q's fingers close around the cool rail at his side. Discomfort from his whitened knuckles doesn't quite register when there is the need for _something_  to ground him. It doesn't work. Every time the train stops and the doors open into station after station, Q tilts his head to see if maybe after all there is someone coming to catch him along the way.

Eventually, when the doors open once again he needs to get off and walk the rest of the way home. Long before coming to MI6 he used to be afraid of the streets and the people who would delight in getting him beaten up, mugged or at least spooked into choosing a longer way or into spending the night away from home altogether. Tonight, like every night for the past ten years, he isn't afraid of those things. That is, he maintains a healthy wariness of lurking people who might be a threat not against _him_ , but against _MI6_. The kind of people best dealt with by agents, not Q-Branch goblins. His hand always stays in one pocket of his jacket or inside his open messenger bag. The stun gun he'd perfected to be as versatile as a Swiss knife is always under his fingers. Actually, he has a Swiss knife inside one of his shoes.

He makes it home in good time, not spotting anyone but two cats cuddled on one windowsill. The final time he checks for shadows behind him is at the gate of the community. Looking out for danger has taken Q's mind off of the heavy weight of the other worry and now that he's standing at the entrance to his block, there's nothing to distract him like that anymore.

It's quiet inside, as could be expected. Bright lights designed to fit the elegant foyer are a familiar comfort, pulling Q in. He nods at the guard and goes straight to the lift. As he waits it seems to be coming down from the top floor, giving Q too much time to think. He waits for about ten seconds more before darting up the stairs. There's nothing rational about having recalled the cool, chrome interior of the lift and thinking just how locked in he'd be inside it. He doesn't want to linger on the thought of the lift cage going down instead of up and never stopping.  
Running up the stairs like there's something behind him, Q makes it to his floor in record time. There's no need to worry about neighbours waking up to his stomping, not for the amount of money they all pay for the privilege of living in the complex. Even without the improvements Q's made to his own flat it was already comfortable and private. It's one of the reasons why Bond stays here more often than at his own place.

Q unlocks the door with hands that shake only a little, slips inside the flat and makes sure all the locks re-engage. He's home. It's nearing three am. It's been three hours of confusion and having the proverbial sword hanging over his head. The anticlimactic nature of it all weighs him down even more because he doesn't know what's happening. The sword is _there_ , it must be, but if it lingers inactive then Q isn't going to wait for it curled in fear.

First the left shoe, then the right, Q toes them off and lets them stay where they drop. The parka gets thrown over the backrest of one of the chair he passes by on his way to the bathroom. After washing his face, he leans on one arm propped on the bathroom countertop and stares at the fresh droplets sliding down the basin. His mind gets fuzzy for a few seconds, before he catches himself and shakes it off. Very carefully, he doesn't look at himself in the mirror. He hasn't been sleeping much, lately. Partially because of the fear, mostly because he hasn't wanted to spend the time sleeping. When he wasn't being distracted by Bond's attentions Q lay awake, propped up on one elbow and watching his lover sleep.

In that moment when he pauses in the bathroom he _hears_  the silence of the place. It's been there since he's entered, only now it begins to bother him.  
For a long, horrible moment his imagination gets the better of him. This sort of peace and darkness is bloody normal for late night-early morning in autumn, yet it takes effort to convince himself of it. He has to see if... If the bedroom is empty he doesn't know what he'll do. He _should have_  looked into the bedroom first, damn it.  
Stepping softly on the lush carpet, Q makes his way in there... where James is sleeping, not bothered by anything happening in Q's head.  
Blond head and a sliver of bare skin where the well-worn, soft shirt shows one shoulder are a sight Q drinks in greedily. It's been months of this now and he still feels wonder at having this permanent guest in his life and his bedroom.

Lurking in the door, Q watches and breathes easier until it dawns on him how creepy he's behaving.

Coming properly into the bedroom he makes more of a mess dropping pieces of his clothing on the floor, only bothering to leave his underwear on and to grab a shirt for sleeping in. Under the duvet there waits softness and comfort, and a warm body.

"I thought you'd be home by 2." Bond speaks, startling Q. His is the first human voice Q has heard in _hours_  that he doesn't want to beg to please leave him alone. The sleep-rough texture of it feels like honey to Q's ears.

"Sorry." Q finds his own voice after a beat too long, which Bond is sure to notice. "Just another project I didn't want to push back again." He says as he buries his face in Bond's t-shirt, between his shoulder blades.

"You know I don't like leaving things unfinished." Q adds and it is the truth, yet it tastes like a lie.

A half-formed hum is his answer. Q lies awake, knowing Bond wouldn't be sleeping until he knew Q was out, too. The last ties of tension have let go of his neck and shoulders some minutes ago, leaving the Quartermaster with a bone-deep sadness. His eyes track the play of street lights on the walls, filtered through the curtains. Two or three times stripes of brighter white coming from passing headlights crawl along the wall toward the corner of the bedroom. Beside him, Bond is kind enough not to comment on his overthinking. Somehow, it only serves to make him sadder.

Q breathes in his partner's scent, soaks in his warmth and hopes it will make him feel a little more alive. Bond lets him cling to his back, though he'll probably turn over in a minute to look at Q. If he does, Q won't have the nerve to speak.

"I used to not be worth much." He starts, at the easy part. "Ten years ago, I was still- well, I was still intimidated easily but only because I haven't got used to handling people yet. I was on my way to having a degree and eventually it got me where I am."

And, well. Q's 'easy' has never been like most people's 'easy'. It's damn hard to be saying these things out loud, especially when he doesn't know how far he's going to go, with Bond.

"Fifteen years ago, I had _nothing_. Except perhaps the knowledge of better things which existed out there and in no way was I about to get any of them. Not on my own, not in the life I had. Now, I'd like to say I have made something of myself. That I can count a few successes even if not everything was perfect."

This is what he has now: the pride in his work for Six. It's a relief his voice sounds just a little bit stronger at the end there. Bond does turn over, of course, as Q is finishing the sentence. With the agent's movement Q shifts too, onto his back, even though he's noticed the way Bond meant to touch him and in the end didn't. Their eyes not quite meet because Q doesn't want them to. He can't avoid noticing the flash of blue, though, darker and muted in the night. Q looks up at the ceiling, feeling Bond's gaze on him.

"I'd say you have." The voice beside him says. "Aren't eight out of ten of missions ran by Q-Branch successful?"

"That's 87,5 percent of missions, Double-Oh Seven. And getting better." Q allows himself half a smile and a glance at Bond. "There is one agent skewing the results with collateral damage, which doesn't count towards success."

The agent makes a noise of acknowledgement and then seems to wait for Q to continue. So Q does.

"What I meant to say... I wished for a better life and I suppose that's exactly what I'm living now. Just, wishes aren't gifts, are they? Gifts come free and wishes don't. Good people get all sorts of cancer or die in car crashes, or from an asthma attack..." Or collateral damage, or- "It doesn't even matter that I'm younger than you, does it?"

James is very quiet, considering all the things Q is rambling about at this point. Q would have expected him to stop him by now or redirect him back to the point he was trying to make. It must look like Q is working his way to announce he's ill himself or has a hit put out on him. These are mundane, earthly ways to go, both of which he could tell Bond about and even have the man help him. He can't have anyone reverse the Deal for him.

"I don't particularly want to die at this point in my life." He says, feeling as though he's making an open announcement to the world.

"You won't." Bond says simply, smooth and calm. Q expected nothing less from him and yet he's annoyed by it.

"But you can't be sure, can you?" Q insists, not wanting to hear Bond's overconfidence, not this time. "You can only make sure to do your best to protect me, if it's something you can even do anything about. In the physical way."

"I am sure."

Q can't bear to listen to this, not with how bitter-sweet it makes him feel, tugging at him. He can't bear to have the warm hand, somehow having wormed its under the duvet to his side, petting him as if Q's talking about annoyances at work.

"Please, don't."

"I said I'm sure, Adam."

Just like this, it's all flipped over. Bond's tone of voice, the _name_ , the way the rough fingers curl at Q's side just so... The icy cold that comes deep from within Q's body makes Bond's touch burn his skin. Now he rolls to the side to, to look at Bond.

"Where did you get my name from?" He all but whispers, not at all wishing to know the answer.

"It used to be the only name you had."

Q is frozen. He's locked in shock and indecision and he can't begin to remember how to move. All there is are Bond's eyes looking straight into his. Those bloody unnatural eyes, which Q has always suspected read twice as many secrets as Q has ever allowed to be read. The man doesn't look away and doesn't _let_  Q look away while he moves that warm hand until he's touching the younger man's face.

"You're not going to die for your wish, Q."

It takes a long time for Q to accept what his brain has just put together for him. The man in front of him seems to be giving him the time he needs to get his mouth to work. The thumb at his cheek brushes over Q's skin once, twice...

" _You_  were going to collect?" He chokes out at last.

"Yes."

"Please don't say you've been waiting in MI6 for this day for... how many years?"

"I have not been waiting in MI6 for this day. There were others before you and there will be some more after you. It's all along my way, so to speak."

Q shivers, prompting the hand on his face to return to the bare skin of his side and make small soothing motions there. He doesn't even think of dislodging it.

Why should it matter that he's been falling in love with someone who's only been waiting for his time to run out so they could truly take all of him? He'd expected to die hours ago, never seeing Bond again, so why does he think he has the right to be so betrayed now?

"I have questions."

Bond nods, lazy in the comfort of their bed, while Q feels as though lying on needles.

"The _One_  I had talked to looked different."

"It wasn't me, precisely. We share responsibilities." Bond moves his hand to vaguely gesture at the air. "You didn't sign it with me but I know all about you."

"Who else at Six did it?" Q blurts out. Bond opens his mouth to speak but Q rushes to interrupt. "Not current ones. I don't want to know. The dead ones."

"Of course. We never speak of deals which are not complete." Bond informs him calmly. Then, after a beat, he says, "It was M."

Q stares at him, wide-eyed. "Really?" He wouldn't have thought. But then again... "Was your presence here part of fulfilling the wish?"

"It didn't have to be, though it was a little part of it." The man shrugs. "I mostly did it for myself. Convenience, as I said."

Q lies there, trying his best not to see Bond as a trap, laid out not only for Q but apparently at every other step that other people take. How many of Bond's kind are out there? When Q – Adam – had been fifteen, he'd seen the whole affair with teenager's eyes: a mystery shrouding the Deal, one of a kind chance coming to those who _needed_  strongly enough and who would go far enough.  
M though... Just how bad were things going for the Six if she'd decided to fix it in such way? James might answer if Q asked. He doesn't ask, for fear of finding out some disturbing facts about MI6 that will only make it harder for him to keep his emotions in check.

Q needs a moment to take the information in. Bloody hell. M, him as the Quartermaster... Plus the best agent they had was the one with all the cards. Who else was making MI6 get ahead in the game with their deals? For that matter, what organisations on the other side had bosses who used their deals to get more power?

"Before that, there was Vesper." Bond continues without prompting, so Q calls the name to memory. He only knows it because he's read all his agents' files and Lynd's was in 007's.

"Vesper gave up her life for her lover's. There was no other way to get him out. I believe he is alive and well, somewhere in central Europe."

"But," Q dares to inquire, "did you really have an affair with her?"

"Yes, if you want to call it that. If she hadn't made the decision, her man would have died. If she made the decision, as she did, she would have been dead soon anyway, as she was. In the end, there wasn't much room left for a cheater's regrets." It's cold but logical and Q accepts it for what it is. Vesper couldn't even get the amount of time he has got and he feels sad for it.

"There were a few others you wouldn't recognise by name. Then there were some names I've been sent out to deal with, who died by my hand and your gun."

"They've all died then." Q murmurs to himself. "M from her wound, Vesper drowned-"

"I stabbed Silva." Bond offers one more name.

"Him too?"

"Of course."

"Of course." Q repeats automatically. It makes sense now, the way that man had achieved his goals.

“What are you going to do with me?” There's absolutely nothing Q's skinny body can do to save itself from Bond's hold.

What Bond does, however, is wrap his arm around Q's middle and pull him in, unresisting. It's so like the other nights that Q's body refuses to do anything but accept it. How many times had Bond held him close through the night before?

"Those other wishes the expensive ones.” The man says. “Saving a life, changing an important outcome, creating love, showering someone with money. Predictable and unimaginative."

He does sound truly unimpressed as he lists them.

"Immortality?"

"It's possible but we don't grant that one. You are free to ask for a hundred years or two, if you want."

"Is there, um, a tier? I mean, I'm thinking of Vesper. You didn't give her any time. "

"There are importance brackets. They allow for wiggle room at the representative's discretion.”

"I can't fucking believe you. You're following the rules in the second job of yours?"

Bond grins, with just too many teeth showing for Q's comfort.

"And my wish?"

"Simple, easy to do. Inexpensive. Smart." Bond lists in one breath, making Q's thoughts swirl. There's a compliment in it, he knows, even as he tries to guess if being simple is a good thing.

"You're not going to die for it." Bond says again, with soft patience.

"But my soul..."

"You did trade it in."

"Can a human live without it?"

"No. Unless there's some serious meddling involved, effects of which I personally find aesthetically offensive." For a second Bond has a faraway look on his face, which Q finds absolutely disturbing, because if Bond is remembering that _thing_ , then Q can't help imagining it.

There's some uncomfortable silence following – that is, one side of it is undeniably uncomfortable. The other side probably doesn't care.

Q sorts all the fresh info in his head.

"So then... It was a _deal_. The date had been agreed on-"

"Why are you so eager to have everything by the book this time?" Bond interrupts him.

"I always try to do it by the book, only I always have to work around _you_."

"No you don't." The demon grins at him, with the teeth again. Before Q can say more, he silences the Quartermaster with a finger pressed to his lips. "Please tell me why you are so sure I don't already have it?"

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Oh." _Oh_. "Where is it then?" _He has just said people can't live without souls?_

James pushes at Q's t-shirt just enough to slip his hand under the fabric and moves it up. Two fingers slide over Q's sternum, to where his ribs end. The hand is warm, the feel of the skin familiar, yet Q's own skin crawls.

"Right here. It benefits me to let you safe-keep it for me. It is mine, though."

"I don't feel any different." Q says carefully. "That is, except for this." He makes a vague gesture between them. "I'm bloody terrified for a whole new set of reasons."

"I know." Bond pulls him even closer in his strong grip. "There's no need. You wouldn't feel any different when nothing's changed inside you. Or on the outside. I'm rather fond of your outside."

Q hears the words and his mind files them away for later. For now he latches onto the implications of the most important part. "You're... keeping me?" He doesn't dare believe yet, not when Bond's free to pull the rug from under him whenever he pleases.

"I promise you have at least ten more years ahead of you."

Q blinks, waits for the man to take it back, to laugh and say it was actually a joke. Bond's usual promises involve Q's gear or Bond's own health on missions and Q's learned long ago not to trust those promises, delivered with a hint of a smile. Now, it's different. He sounds like he means it.

"'At least', hm? Let me guess, I won't be getting rid of you." He doesn't know how he feels about this yet. With brain working like a ball of cotton, Q isn't capable of making rational or practical decisions. Unless one considers staying put in bed practical.

"No." Bond leans in to place a kiss on Q's neck, then at the edge of his jaw as if to punctuate the short word. Q lets him do it because being kissed is better than being dead.

They're both quiet then, for long enough for Q to decide to lay his head down, meaning to aim for bunched up bedsheets and finding a warm arm offered as pillow instead. Admirably, he doesn't jerk away. His eyes travel up and down, and back again over the body in front of him, while his brain is trying to digest the fact of having a demon for a partner and having a demon for co-worker.

He hasn't asked about his similarities to Vesper. He hasn't asked if he's more important to Bond, or perhaps there's nothing interesting about him but the weight of his old Wish. Bond has been and is being patient and affectionate with him, something which Q desperately doesn't want to ruin, even if it's nothing but illusion. He doesn't want it taken away even as he's cold with fear of the man beside him. If and when Bond feels like twisting the knife, then Q will worry about it, no sooner.

Having his main question of 'am I dead yet?' answered only frees Q's mind to run ahead and make a list of new important things to clear up, side questions and -

"Stop before you start." James mutters beside him, muffled like he's speaking into the pillow. He might be. It's their bed and it's still middle of the night.

"The only question you need an answer to is whether Double-Oh Two will need you tomorrow." Bond tells him, this time successfully calling Q back to reality. He does have to be back at Six by two the following afternoon, to oversee a delicate operation expected to extend well into the night time. He hadn't forgotten about it, naturally. He'd put everything in place to let R handle that in his sudden and tragic absence. Apparently he'll do it himself, after all.

Bond's arm stays heavy over his hip, giving him a little rub.

"Okay." Q whispers to himself. "All right. I'm fine. I'll be fine." Wrapping his arms around himself for comfort, he tries to sleep.

...

**Author's Note:**

> Q wished for the Night Tube to work :) But not really.  
> \-----------------------------------------------------  
> All non-native speaker's mistakes are mine.
> 
> To be continued?


End file.
